


play me 'til your fingers bleed

by uumiho



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Battlefield Terra, Crying During Sex, FaceFucking, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Self-Hatred, Slapping, Violence, fanfic of a fanfic, hatefucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 16:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7808374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumiho/pseuds/uumiho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BR: Hey, asswipe.<br/>J.Noir: what the fuck. don’t message me. i don’t care if you’re bored to tears. some of us got shit to do with their lives.<br/>BR: Hey, good idea, for once!<br/>BR: If you make me cry from choking on your dick I’ll stop messaging you until tomorrow, eight AM sharp.<br/>J.Noir: …<br/>J.Noir: bike shed, five minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	play me 'til your fingers bleed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Asuka Kureru (Askerian)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askerian/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Battlefield Terra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/365950) by [Asuka Kureru (Askerian)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askerian/pseuds/Asuka%20Kureru). 



> this will not make sense unless you have read Battlefield Terra! i suppose you can read it anyway if you really want to, but at least read The One Where Bro And Noir Hatefuck for context. or don't. your choice!
> 
> please please please mind the tags these characters are by no means _nice_ to each other
> 
> summary was stolen from Asuka's tumblr (with permission)
> 
> happy birthday nerd!! >:P

(it’s okay.

deep breath.

deep—

it’s not okay.)

He puts Dave back in bed and leaves before they can strap him back in. Bro hates himself for not saying anything, not goodbye, definitely not reassurance. From him it’d come as something cheap. Patronizing. Dave wouldn’t believe him any farther than he could throw him, and right now—

He’s not gonna think about it right now. He’s not going to think about _anything_.

It’s as easy as a thought to shoot off a few rapid-fire messages, queueing up Noir’s chat on autopilot (a reflex, he’s done this before; he’s just cooling down like any other time, nothing special about today). The confirmation induces its own round of fucked up anticipatory hormones; five minutes? Who needs ‘em. Bro is gone, bullet-from-a-gun, leaving the hospital bed behind.

(it comes with him, though. a part stays in the back of his mind where he just can’t seem to dislodge it, like shrapnel in the guts, a slow and silent killer.)

He shows up at the shed before Noir does and tries not to look desperate (haha) tries not to look like— (his baby boy, bruised and tied down in a hospital bed)

Nothing’s wrong. He even kills some time wiping some grime off his bike. Good bike, best friend. Tough. Reliable. _Fixable_. Oh, hell.

By the time he hears footsteps, he’s halfway to stir crazy. That was way longer than five minutes, damn it. Noir pushes open the door to the shed, and Bro immediately snaps, “What, you get lost on the way?” It kind of ruins the casual air of him leaning against an empty chunk of wall by the doorjamb, arms folded lazily. Trying too hard. He feels like— Haha, no. (Dave always tried too hard. Got it from him somehow, because Romy doesn’t try at all. Dave cares like her, though, in a way Bro will never understand but is almost envious of, even while he’s methodically plucking those feelings out of Dave’s brain and laying down poison so they don’t come back.)

“Fuck off,” Noir says. “Told you I had shit to do. I had to walk out of a meeting for your desperate ass.” Yeah, he’s not fooling anyone. At least he can own it.

“What can I say, sugar, you’re a regular dreamboat.” Eyeroll. Behind the shades, but Noir will pick up the faint shift of muscles, will hopefully want to punish him for it too. “I’m like a teen on prom night.”

Noir scoffs. “More like a college drop-out on the set of her first porn.” He unzips his pants. His dick is already hard.

“Highschool, actually,” Bro says absently. Distracted, finally. “That for me?”

Stroking himself real slow, Noir sneers. “I dunno, you gonna ask me real nice?”

“No,” Bro shoots back, rebelling even though he wants it; doesn’t really want to have to fight _for_ it. Current mood is more ‘made to take it, held down and fucked without an option.’ Mind gone, out of his head, floating above his body, turned into thoughtless meat… yeah. Yeah. Sounds good. If he could get Jack on the uptake without having to actually say that all…

Shouldn’t be too hard. Dare he presume, but Jack likes putting him into the ground. All he has to do is— “You ain’t earned it, far as I’m concerned. Tellin’ me five minutes then showing up late with a chubby. Was it awkward thinking of my mouth when surrounded by old ass political windbags? D’ya think they noticed your excuse was shit?”

Yellowed teeth bare at him, thin lips curled back. “Don’t care if they did. Won’t say nothin’. Would like to see any of ‘em try.”

Bro looks at his wrist absently, squinting down at the bare skin. “Are we fucking or posturing? I’m kind of on a schedule here, unless Mister Premature over here needs a second to calm down first.” He nods dismissively at Jack’s dick, like he isn’t hard inside his own jeans, like it’s not a huge rush to see Noir so fucking ready to destroy him. “I did budget more than thirty seconds for this, so don’t—”

Knife at his throat. Bro sees it coming and pretends he doesn’t. Noir doesn’t care: up in his face, slacks sagging, erect cock brushing the front of his t-shirt. “I’m gonna fuck your throat so nasty you’ll be _begging_ me to come long before it’s over,” he snarls.

“‘f I’m still able to beg you ain’t doin’ it right.” There’s a moment of silent rage, then Jack slams the handle of the knife into his jaw. Bro was expecting the blow but didn’t calculate until too late how hard it was going to be. _Fuck_ , that’s gonna bruise, right on his face, too.

Jack sets his blade a scant millimetre, if that, from Bro’s jugular. It’s so close he can feel the cutting edge vibrating against the thin hairs there, dangerously electric. “On your knees, Strider, I’ll show you what the fuck _right_ feels like.”

Too easy. Bro doesn’t go down. “Yawn,” he says instead.

Those dark eyes narrow with thought, calculating in ways that run closer to _instinct_ and _primal_ , less tangible or mechanical than Bro’s own thoughts. He’s almost envious of now little Noir has to think, how little he overthinks, not plagued by the same bullshit circling Bro’s own mind day after day after, oh. Kissing? A hard, rabid mouth against his, not what he expected, but Bro sucks in a breath and then— _oh_.

Can’t breathe suddenly, in the bad way, no fingers gripping his throat (brain going fuzzy-warm, eyes unfocused), just a well-placed blow to the solar plexus. Shit, he’s _actually_ distracted, didn’t prepare for that at all— Too late to hate himself for it, because Jack strikes twice more: crook of the neck and shoulder, then left shin, unbalancing him. Gasping for air that just won’t come, Bro is hardly an obstacle to put on the ground: Jack grabs him by the throat and slams his head back against the wall, and there’s a black-and-white moment of pain and nothing and then he’s on his ass, face-to-face with Jack’s dick.

Fingers clench tight on his jaw, squeezing threateningly at symmetrical pressure points. “Open your mouth, unless you want me to force that too,” Jack says dangerously, his other hand holding his dick steady, aimed at Bro like it’s another weapon. Bro scowls at him, setting his teeth with an audible click. He’s still hissing in desperate breaths, trying to replenish oxygen in his body, but he doesn’t open his mouth, even when Jack squeezes and Bro feels the dull pain behind his _eyes_.

(Still too easy. Not hot enough yet. Not _mad_ enough yet. He needs to push him just a little further.)

“Fucking toddler,” Jack growls, setting his foot down threatening on Bro’s dick, applying pressure through the thick denim. “Don’t demand something from me if you’re too chickenshit to take it.” He’d sass back, but Jack would probably surprise dick him when he opened his mouth, so Bro just raises his eyebrows and rolls his hips slowly into the heel of Jack’s boot. Fuck with him, Noir.

He expects Jack to pry his mouth open, or hit him, or produce a knife from under his fingernails so he can _make_ a hole if Bro won’t give him one. Instead Jack goes oddly still, rocking his weight back off Bro’s cock. The scratchy pads of his fingers stroke up Bro’s cheek, uncomfortably gentle.

That should have been his warning.

Jack traces a scar stretching from the bridge of his nose across his cheekbone, feather-light, eyes hooded so low they get lost in the shadows of the dim shed. Then he snatches the shades right off Bro’s face and hurls them across the room.

“What the _fu_ —” Bro rears up, ready to rip the man in two for the fucking audacity—glasses come off when _he_ decides, not a second sooner, not a moment otherwise—but he gets a knee in the throat. Head knocks back against the wall again; there’s a fist in his hair now, holding him in place.

Half a dozen options for immediate and merciless retribution fill his head, but he forces the fight-smash-murder down, swallowing it back. It’s different with Jack than with a Domme; there’s no negotiation, no kink-flavoured overundertones, just raw and brutal instinct polluting the space around them like city smog. Sometimes they go too far (sometimes it’s not far enough) and there’s no real way of _controlling_ it, which leads to the occasional graphic fantasies of punching Jack directly in the balls and then throttling him. Bro flexes his arms and closes his eyes, counting back from five. When that fails to quell the rage entirely Bro starts walking himself into negatives until the sound of irritated snapping breaks his concentration. 

“The way I see it,” Jack drawls, rolling his hips forward until his dick is pressed against Bro’s face, “if you got those stupid things on, I can’t very well tell if you’re actually as much of a little bitch as you promised you’d be.” He rubs against him just like that, like Bro’s nothing more than a convenient rutting mount. He’s making a mess, too, already dripping with precum that smears a damp line across Bro’s cheek. “Get ready to weep like a fuckin’ girl.”

Clucking his tongue, Bro says, “If I don’t die of old age first,” lips moving against the skin of Jack’s cock. He’s hungry for it, body thrumming with angry indignation, muscles flexing with aborted pre-attacks; yes, Jack has him vulnerable, but Bro’s gotten out of worse, he has the most sensitive part of this scumweasel’s body in front of him, he’s not helpless, he’s not, he could crush this asshole if he really wanted—

Except Jack’s toe has nudged between his legs, rubbing absently against his balls, curling further under him and Bro grinds down without thinking, lips parting just a bit when he gets a little more contact, and then his head is jerked forward and his nose ends up buried in short, wiry pubes. Bro’s throat immediately convulses around the foreign object invading it; he gags and tries to reel back but there’s a wall behind him, a hand firm in his hair, and Jack is all too willing to let him smack his skull into the hard surface because then there’s nowhere to escape the hard cock thrusting into his mouth.

He squirms desperately, gagging, drool already leaking from the corner of his mouth as Jack methodically rocks his hips, offering no quarter. It comes down to a moment where he is either going to puke or pass out, so he slams a fist down on Jack’s thigh, warning. Jack stills but doesn’t pull out (one second, two, _fuck_ ) until Bro grabs his hips hard enough to bruise and _shoves_. A thick string of saliva connects Jack’s dick to his lips when he finally pulls out; Bro gasps for air as Jack lets out a braying, rasping laughter. “Thought you could take better than this. Thinkin’ I’d get more pleasure sticking my dick in an industrial fan.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Bro wheezes, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. Jack smacks the hand away, then pins him with a knee to the shoulder, aiming his dick with his free hand. This time Bro opens his mouth without a fight, bracing himself for the incoming onslaught.

Jack fucks his mouth dirty and rough, both hands holding his head steady as he snaps his hips forward in sharp jerks, barely withdrawing enough to give Bro space to breathe. While not especially thick, his cock is long enough that Bro has to concentrate on relaxing his throat when Jack shoves it all in, holding him in place until tears prickle the corner of his eyes and his body starts to tremble, scrambling for breath.

“Broken already?” Jack asks, pulling back enough that he can condescendingly rub his thumb along Bro’s lower eyelid, collecting the moisture.

Bro spits a mouthful of phlegm on the floor. “Don’t give yourself that much credit,” he grumbles, voice low and wheezing.

“Thought you’d say somethin’ like that,” he responds, pushing once more into Bro’s panting mouth. He squeezes his eyes closed, feeling his lips bruise more with every pass. There’s no technique to be used other than _be a good hole_ , keep your fucking teeth out of the way and make your throat cooperate with the hard thing repeatedly shoving into it. Bro rides on it, concentrating on relaxing and getting air whenever he can, when Noir slides out a bit too far. He’s almost in the zone, meditating with it, when Jack flicks his wrist and Bro’s head glances off the wall, and god _damn it_ that’s like the fifth time, what the fuck.

His eyes fly open; he’s ready to swear at the fucking _annoying piece of shit_ methodically destroying his mouth, but Jack preempts it. He slaps him hard across the mouth, cutting his lips on the flats of his teeth. “ _Look at me_ next time I shove my dick in your face, you ungrateful, undeserving whore. I didn’t come here to be fucking ignored.”

His next quip is also cut off— Jack thrusts back in before he’s ready and Bro gags dangerously, coughing and writhing, but Jack lets out a nasally, sadistic snicker and goes _faster_ , maintaining deep and violating strokes that send Bro’s system into shock. Nose and eyes dripping, mouth covered in his own spit— Jack withdraws, trailing even more fluid, viscous and disgusting and he smears it on Bro’s face, sparing a hand to wrap around his shaft, stroking himself as he gloats over Bro’s wince. Bro doesn’t need to be told what to do when yanked forward: he sticks out his tongue and licks clumsily at Jack’s balls, sucking them into his mouth and taking advantage of the few seconds without a foreign object lodged in his throat.

It doesn’t last. He’s jerked back again and can barely open his mouth in time before it’s back, invading him, repetitive and blunt, and he was ordered to look so he _does_ , arching his neck until his watery eyes can make out Jack’s dark ones, the sneer on his thin lips as he takes in the wreckage below.

“Fucking worthless, good-for-nothing hole,” he mutters, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in. Bro twitches hard, hands coming up to grab Jack’s thighs, scrambling to steady himself. Jack snatches him at both the wrists, pins them above his head and uses it as an anchor, bending until his forehead is against the coarse wood and he’s practically enveloping Bro, making everything feel tight and claustrophobic-too-close, too-close-can’t-breathe, struggling-humiliated, dripping from the face and then he remembers Jack’s foot is shoved snugly against his taint because he starts using it to rub at him again, and despite himself Bro groans around his cock and Jack snickers and mumbles, “Needy slut, how’s this?” and pushes in all the way, and _holds it_ , and keeps it there until Bro’s whole body shakes and when he finally backs off Bro gasps air with a sound like dying.

“Good enough for ya?” He lets Bro breathe, smacking his cock against the hollow of his cheek. Bro counts five inhales before he’s dragged back, doesn’t even think of wasting time with a quip, he’s completely beyond that, lips split and bleeding, face stinging, throat burning, head throbbing— Jack’s rhythmic grunts aren’t even soothing anymore; they’re just punctuation at the end of a sentence that started with ‘desperate.’

His jaw is getting a bit tired, which he does not want, but Jack notices when he keeps shoving him away to breathe at closer and closer intervals. Despite Jack’s obvious preference to keep his dick shoved in Bro’s face, Bro is still stronger and can dislodge him.

Noir is nothing if not competitive. 

He hears a whoosh, the clink of a belt. Bro blinks up as Jack threads one end of the belt through the buckle and then realizes what’s intended to happen with it and kicks out, knocking one of Jack’s legs out from under him. “Fuck no,” he hisses, but Jack quickly regains his balance and punishes him with a knee to the underside of his chin.

Fuck all _this_. Bro scrambles up from his sitting position, jaw smarting (bit his cheek, damn it) and tries to scramble away, but Jack trips him, gets deliberately _under_ him so he goes careening into the floor, almost crashing into the ass end of his bike. He flips immediately but Jack’s already on him, belt in hand. He hates this (it’s good though, distracting, blood pumping, everything is _fine_ —) hates when Jack ignores the punch in the throat that almost misses, and he doesn’t dare kick again because if he kicks Jack in the dick he will actually be dead, like one thousand percent, knife meet organs in unholy fucking matrimony, oh God, he got it over his head—

Jack pulls the belt loop tight around Bro’s neck and grins, crooked and savage. “Try to escape now,” he says with a note of promise.

He’s propped up on his elbows but barely, with a fucking improvised leash on his neck (he hasn’t worn a leash in seven years or so, since that one Domme— Amanda, she was cool, made him wear one and tugged on it while he ate her out, really satisfying with the aftercare—) and Noir is hovering over his chest, gets up on one knee—

It feels so much more violating this way, unable to escape, Jack’s crotch literally baring down on his face; breath comes even harder like this, trying to keep himself up, if he slips Jack’ll probably pin him to the ground and fuck him just like that and _damn_ , no, not unless he’s unconscious, dead, or incapacitated, too far into the ‘absolutely no control over his situation’ zone, oh God, he can’t breathe.

Bro loses a bet, not that Noir will be able to tell when the tears stop being tears of _can’t breathe_ and start being tears of humiliated discomfort (and yet not, it still feels good, he’s hard as rock and swallows around Jack’s dick and when Jack hauls on the belt to hold him all the way down to the base, Bro sticks his tongue out to lap at his balls, more tears spilling from his eyes). His vision actually goes a bit soft at the corners before Jack loosens his grip on the belt. Bro pulls away, gasping, and with the first hiccup a glint of realization flickers through Noir’s dark eyes and he _knows_.

“You really are a toddler,” he rasps, lip curled in disgust. He gets off his knees and tugs the belt, dragging Bro over to his actual bike, and fuck no, but also at least he’s not almost horizontal anymore, so Bro lets his back be pressed to cold, grungy metal and doesn’t complain.

His shirt is wet from drool and he feels disgusting and destroyed and that was the point, wasn’t it? God, Jack wasn’t wrong about not being done until Bro was beyond messed up, fucker has him some _stamina_.

Jack isn’t impervious to fatigue, though (thank god, maybe). He eventually slows his pace, breath coming in ragged pants. Too many seconds pass and Bro abruptly changes his mind about wanting Jack to stop. He lunges forward, practically falling back onto his dick face-first; he’s _utterly fucking wrecked_ but it’s preferable to, to— Anyway. He doesn’t need Jack to fuck his face. He can do it his own damn self, a hand tucked between Jack’s thighs, holding his balls as he bobs his head as fast as he can, focusing on the wet sounds he makes every time the tip hits the back of his throat.

“Jesus, Strider, I don’t want to know what kinda steam you’re trying to let off,” Jack half-snickers, although he holds his cock steady and doesn’t argue at all as Bro—

pauses.

Slows to a halt, lips mouthing absent-mindedly at the head of his dick, eyes flicking up to give Jack a contemplative look through the watery crocodile tears dripping down his cheeks.

He’s not working off steam (haha, liar). He’s fine. This is fine. Nothing’s wrong.

Why is his face wet, again? That’s just saliva, facefucking is messy, he’s fine, everything is okay—

Bro chokes on nothing and reels back. Jack’s cock is no longer in his mouth but he chokes again, anyway, on his own throat, feels like there’s still something in it, like it’s closing up of it’s own accord, oh God, oh fuck, oh shit.

“—Strider?”

 _‘s’fine_ , he tries to say, and it comes out a panicked, hollow gasp, and Bro snatches his hand away from Jack’s body and clasps it over his mouth, trying to calm his breath.

Nothing’s wrong nothings wrong _nothings wrongnothings—_

“ _—_ ly fuck, are you going into shock? Allergic to being a little bitch? _Strider_.” Jack slaps him, but it’s not sexy this time (god he can see his boner starting to wilt and it’s such a weird detail to focus on with Jack hauling up his drool covered pants in one hand, the other hovering in case he needs to strike him again, but it just makes him cry harder, like he failed, like he’s a fucking failure at _everything)_ (failedtoprotecthiskid) (no no, it’s **_fine_** _!_ ).

He’s peripherally aware that Jack is still talking but Bro buries his face in his knees and fists his hands so tight it hurts, presses the insides of his wrists to his forehead and it burns, pressure, shaking, his whole body, and no, he’s not fine. He’s not, he’s—

Alone.

Jack is gone.

It’s relief and horror all at once—relief at being alone, horror at being alone with _himself_. No, this wasn’t part of the plan. _Stop crying, you piece of shit!_

Bro fights with himself for fuck knows how long, fists in his hair, teeth in his own hand, sucking in gasping breaths as he tries to calm down and utterly fails and then, like being splashed with a bucket full of ice water, he’s suddenly not alone. On autopilot he rolls, smacks himself on the bike (his head, _ow_ , lost count how many times it’s—)

He stops. Sees pink.

“Romy?”

She stands in the open doorway, eyes wide, hand on her chest. Clears her throat. Closes the door (trembling, her hand is trembling). Gets down on her knees. “Look at you, you big lump of emotional repression,” she says quietly. “If you needed a hug so bad, why didn’t you just ask me in the first place?” Bro is covered in saliva and sex juice and probably some blood and bruises, too, and he looks at her like a caged animal would look down the barrel of a tranq gun; still in a crouch, unmoving.

Best friend. Old, longest friend, from his past, still here. Hasn’t left. Still doesn’t feel safe.

“C’mere, kitten,” Romy says again. “There…” She hesitates, looking down. “There was nothing we could have done.”

(In the end, she has to go to him. The hug feels good, though. He soaks the front of her lab coat.)

* * *

He’s so fucked up it takes him a whole five hours to figure it out, and a whole two and a half before he works up the nerve to do anything about it. Forty-five minutes later, plans of getting revenge the next day fail to be adequate, and by two AM Bro is very gently easing open the window into Jack’s room. It was loaded with safeguards; he thought at first that Jack noticed him busting in (took too long, damn it), but instead he dragged himself out of bed and shuffled over to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Haa. Nice.

Bro slides sinuously through the open window and leaves it thoughtfully open—nice breeze tonight—as he settles down onto Jack’s still-warm bed. Phone slides out of his pocket; got a game of Candy Crush just waiting for him. Kills about three minutes and then he gets bored, unsilences his phone. _Crsh, crsh, ching!_

The bathroom door slams open and Jack steps out with a knife in his hand. Bro doesn’t so much as twitch. “Hey, sup. Man, I hate it when I gotta piss so late. Really disturbs the beauty sleep, if you know what I— Nevermind, you don’t. Seriously, dude, tighty whities?” Jack looks about fifty years older than he actually is in grandpa undies and a tired looking ribbed undershirt. It’s not the best outfit Bro’s seen him in.  

Growling, Jack stabs the knife straight into the bathroom door, driving it halfway to the hilt. “Strider. What the _fuck_.”

“Got lonely after you left me all alone like that,” Bro says, unable to quite keep the edge out of his voice. “Thought I’d make a personal visit just so I know if I should get the deposit back on the wedding chapel. Cancellations require a month’s notice, bro.”

“Deposit’s gone,” Noir says, visibly trying to suppress his rage. Bro catches his eyes narrowing hatefully at the open window and its broken shutter. Oops. (Don’t care.) “Burned it down a week ago. Not sorry.”

“Aw,” Bro says, then turns off his phone and rolls off the bed, shoving it smoothly in his pocket. “So. I really don’t appreciate you ratting me out like that.” He crosses his arms over his chest and tells himself it’s because— he wants to look intimidating, or bored, or _cold_ , anything other than fucking vulnerable. Because he’s not. He just doesn’t want Jack to mistake it for that, is all.

“Oh, izzat right?” Jack grumbles. He’s walked over to his desk and is staring down at it, doesn’t turn around to look at him when he talks, although Bro can still feel the sneer. “I don’t particularly appreciate being dragged into shit I ain’t signed up for. How’s that?”

Bro goes silent, averting his gaze. He can’t even argue that it’s not what he planned, because it approximately one thousand percent _is_. He just…

Didn’t plan on catching feelings _quite_ so hard. Like, more of a curveball, and less a bowling ball to the larynx. Yeah.

Like hell he’s gonna admit that, though.

“Could’a just left me there,” he grumps. Part of the reason he couldn’t sleep, why he’s even _here_ , is he doesn’t know why Noir _didn’t_. He’d have been fine. Cried for a bit, safe and alone, got on his bike. Went for a ride until all evidence was melted away by wind and sweat. Snuck into the shower (no one would see him, anyway). Come out good as new. Nothing wrong. No one would guess a thing, and people would continue to think of him as a stone-hearted monster who wasn’t reacting at all to his kid being turned into a fucking spaz-case.

Deep breaths.

Noir is watching him with a dry, unimpressed look. (Also, reaching for the pair of slacks slung over his desk chair. Eugh. Bro doesn’t argue. He’s seen Jack’s underwear before but that was in the heat of the moment and— no. Just no.) Jack climbs into his pants and zips but doesn’t button them. They hang loosely on his hips. (Better.) “You’re useless when you’re that fucked up,” Jack finally says, no longer facing his direction. It’s weird. Jack usually isn’t cagey about eye contact.

“Still pissy I didn’t finish the job?” Bro snips, a bit… irritated, actually? It surprises him. They don’t trust each other, but Jack knows that Bro doesn’t trust other people, either. He goes to strangers for that exact purpose; nice working gals who will beat him good and cuddle him better, let him cry and not ask questions, who won’t be around to look at him afterward.

At the moment, Jack’s just… easiest? The most convenient form of catharsis, willing to be mean enough to trigger a break in him, and mean enough to… leave afterward, not give a shit.

But he didn’t. Not the way he was supposed to. And now this fucker has the gall to call Bro _useless_.

“You’d rather I sat there and jacked myself to the sound of your girly fuckin’ keening?”

“Maybe I _would_ have,” Bro says, and the stress comes a little unintended, pissing him off even more. He didn’t give his body permission to feel anything right now. (Calm, he’s stone, he can handle this, nothing felt nothing shown nothing just _nothing_ —)

“Too fucking bad!” Jack snarls, spidery fingers clenching into a fist. Bro opens his mouth to say (—whatever comes to mind, no bad) but Jack mercifully interrupts him. “Let me put it real simple: It’s not my job to babysit you while you pussyfoot around your own sentimentality. It _is_ my job to keep my operation running smoothly, and if that means kicking you in the ass to stop you from falling down your own self loathing, damn right I’m gonna do it.” He huffs at him, then takes an irritable breath. Opens a drawer, pulls out a lighter and a carton of cigarettes. Taps it, immediately draws one out. Bro watches him light it, the tiny speck of yellow flame illuminating a strip of him through the darkness of his room. Takes in the texture of his stained undershirt, the hair on his arms, the glow as he sucks hard on the cigarette.

His shoulders when he breathes out, sated.

Bro replays the speech in his head, trying to draw out the hidden meaning. “So you called Romy.”

“So I made sure someone who _actually gave a shit_ was around to keep you from picking your damn self to worthlessness.” He pauses. “‘Cause I sure as fuck am not that person.” He says it almost defensively. “Who on this damned planet wants to be called on to kick some pathetic fucker when he’s already down? It’s a goddamn insult. I’m better’n that, and if you forget it again I’ll—”

“Jack off on my face while I’m crying?”

“See if I don’t.”

“Only if you promise to try and knife me afterward.”

“That was a given.”

Bro nods. “Injury on top of insult. I like it.”

“Don’t remember asking your opinion,” Jack rumbles, but quieter. He takes another drag.

Navigating closer to him, Bro eyes the cigarette. “So, what I’m getting from this is you’re pissed that you had help making me cry and couldn’t do it all by yourself.”

“Like shootin’ a baby gazelle,” Noir agrees, sounding distracted. Bro steals the cigarette from his hand, noting as the attention flickers back into Jack’s sharp eyes.

He makes eye contact through his shades as he puts the cig to his own lips, draws in breath. Damn. Even Jack’s cigarettes taste like ass.


End file.
